The Crow and the Pitcher
by hell-whim
Summary: He was sick so sick why wouldn't someone pick up that stupid phone couldn't they hear it? AU Post- Intervention -ON SEMI-PERMANENT HIATUS
1. Prima Facie

**Title:** The Crow and the Pitcher

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** He was sick so sick why wouldn't someone pick up that stupid phone couldn't they hear it dammit? Post- Intervention

**Author's Note:** I've never actually written anything in a stream-of-consciousness style before, so this story is new territory. Any of you vaguely familiar with _Johnny Got His Gun_ will appreciate certain parts of this. (What? It's midnight and I have a study guide I don't wanna do. Bite me.) This title is still tentative; I don't know how much I like it. Don't expect this to get updated regularly. And it'll probably get revised a zillion times.

**Chapter 1**

The first sensation he was aware of upon waking was a total and complete lack of pain in his right arm. In fact, he had the rather distinct suspicion that he couldn't feel his arm at all.

Consciousness was a slippery concept, and he grasped desperately at its tendrils but was unable to garner a solid hold. The world around him spun rapidly in its careless stationary stance. All at once he was floating and falling; the air around was suffocating and fresh, his body chill and tepid.

And he was sick. Boy, was he sick. His stomach rolled and groaned and churned inside his abdomen, and he felt too full or like he hadn't eaten in weeks. It was the kind of sick that kept strong men in bed for days, the kind he'd only read about, only tasted once at the hand of democratic Nazis.

He remembered when he was a little boy and had gotten a fever, and Mother had sent for Doctor Gull. He'd been up all night, screaming and shaking and retching, and Mother had tried everything, but nothing was working. She pulled the covers off, and he shivered from the cold; she added extra blankets and he sobbed from the heat; she gave him milk and camomile tea and even a sip of brandy but he only retched it back up. Poor Mother, at her wit's end, tears streaming down her face, and the maids constantly having to change his bedclothes.

"Good evening Mrs. Bennett."

"Good evening Dr. Gull I'm so sorry I didn't mean to make you come all the way out here at this late hour."

"Oh it's quite alright where is he?"

He felt like they were speaking to him through a haze of smoke, and Mother's hand on his forehead felt impossibly cool, like a bath of ice.

"Oh now see he's just got a bit of fever ma'am. Just a bit of fever why don't you give him an ice bath?"

"Well that sounds better Clara draw a nice bath won't you? Go and fetch some snow from outside have Mr. Foss get you a pail and you go and fetch my sweet William some ice."

"Yes ma'am I surely will."

And sweet, pretty Clara, with her delicate smile and shining green eyes had gone outside and gotten him a pail of snow and filled up the tub and he had cried and screamed when Mother pulled back the covers and Dr. Gull picked him up and undressed him and plunked him down into the ice bath. And he screamed and kicked and splashed, and little droplets landed on the hearthstone and went up in steam with a little fizzle.

"Be good now boy be good and quiet and you get plenty of rest all right?"

"Oh he will Dr. Gull thank you thank you you're a savior you truly are say hello to Elizabeth for me thank you William say thank you."

Wrapped in blankets, body numb and stiff, something had forced itself from between his lips, something vaguely resembling a statement of gratitude.

"Well I guess that will have to do thank you again."

"You're welcome good night Mrs. Bennett."

"Good night Dr. Gull thank you."

Clara had drawn the rocking chair up to the fire, and Mother sat with him in her lap, bundled in layers and layers of blankets. She sang and rocked and sang some more, and Clara moved through the house, extinguishing every candle but Mother's special kerosene lamp.

It sat on the table beside the rocking chair, and when he peeked from between the blankets, the soft red glow was all he could see. This lamp was special. Father had given it to Mother as a gift on the day they got betrothed, and it was the only thing of his left in the house. Mother trimmed the wick carefully every Sunday and Clara would take down the jar of kerosene and they'd fill it up and sometimes Mother would add little bits of red plaid or green flannel to make it pretty.

Once when he'd been very, very small and he'd knocked the jar down on accident and his father had been very, very angry. That was the first time he'd been whipped, and he remembered crying and his Mother taking him into her arms and kissing his head and rocking him in the chair beside the fire.

But on Sundays she would sit in the chair with her knitting and he would sit at her feet on the hearthstone with his blocks or his little tin soldiers made from old spoons. Like this they would sit until the sun set and Clara would come and light the special lamp and then Mr. Foss would come in with a load of fresh logs. He'd stamp his feet on the rug and ruffle the boy's hair and give Mother a sheepish nod. Then he'd take down the great big red-bound Bible from the top shelf of the book case and Mother would read the gospels. There were Mark Luke John and oh that was no good he couldn't remember who else. But she'd read them and then they'd sit in silence for a while, everyone thinking well isn't that nice Jesus was so good he went and he died so that Father could give Mother a pretty lamp and leave the family and Clara's sister could die and her parents could drop her at an orphanage and Mr. Foss's wife had seized up with consumption and so he could get sick and sick and sick. Sweet Moses wasn't it wonderful that God had looked down and said I love you I love you all so much that I'm gonna give you my only son so you can kill him and I'll get mad and you'll only be cured of one sin but you'll spend the rest of your lives making up for all the others and aren't you glad I made you sick and poor and mean and violent and dark and all those other things that make it all worth living aren't you glad I cared enough to let you die?

"Isn't that nice William isn't our God a good and generous God and shouldn't we pray for all those poor savages in the world who haven't got God yet and shouldn't we pray that they find him very soon?"

Boy oh boy was he sick.


	2. Peccavi

**Title:** The Crow and the Pitcher  
**Author:** freak-pudding  
**Disclaimer:** _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Summary:** God, why did _everything_ in her world always have to change at the drop of a hat? Post- Intervention  
**Author's Note:** In the interest of furthering my plot purposes, POV will continue to switch back and forth every other chapter.

**Chapter Two: Peccavi**

Sometimes she wondered if it would've been better if they had just left him to burn.

Xander and Giles had been as careful as possible maneuvering him inside the Watcher's spare bedroom, the one just past the bathroom, as Dawn flitted back and forth between the two points, and Buffy leaned against the wall, wishing to God she could make a straight line and clear up all this mess. It had all been so much easier before, and Buffy found herself really, _really_ missing Oz.

Not that she didn't like Tara. Tara was sweet and nice and funny and… Buffy beat her head against the wall, drawing a curious look from Willow and a nod of understanding from Anya.

Anything was better than this. Hell, even being back in high school, being sixteen again and about to lose her virginity and her sanity, _anything_ would have been better than watching Xander and Giles carefully holding up Spike in a body bag, taking him to the back bedroom.

It had really been the last thing she'd expected. Bruises, cuts, broken bones, and even a little head trauma she could deal with, but this? It was too much, too soon, too late. They only said he was thrashed. They never said he was mangled.

With little shudders of disgust, she'd pulled on the bright fuchsia top and pleated peachy skirt, fully intending to scrape off layers of skin upon returning home. She refused to listen to Xander's protestations that they could easily have mistaken her for the Buffybot and vice versa, plastered on her best fake smile, and marched off to Spike's crypt.

Her hair was down for the first time in what felt like weeks, and her steps were bouncy and light, and she almost—_almost_—could imagine that she was any other girl going off to spend a lovely day at the park with her boyfriend. Or putting flowers at her dead boyfriend's grave._ Spike is NOT your boyfriend._

She squared her shoulders, turned that frown upside-down, and pranced through the door. The first thing she saw was the flames.

"Be careful!" Dawn said shrilly. Giles fumbled with his end of the body bag.

"Y'know, when they say _dead weight_, y'never really think it's so…" Xander grimaced, grunting as they shifted through another doorway.

"Dead?" Anya supplied around the core of a slightly browned apple. "You're insane, Giles, there's nothing wrong with your fruit."

"Well, I'll be sure to remember that when you die painfully from a horrid case of worms and I'm… oh, bugger!"

Giles leaned against the wall, balancing his end of the bag across his knees and wiping at the sweat beading his brow.

"Buffy, we might need your help here."

Swallowing the bile in her mouth, Buffy nodded and took her Watcher's place at the head of little moving party.

"And ready? One, two, three…"

She had screamed. Really and truly screamed as she ran into the crypt and beat out the flames on his right arm. But the more she tried to smother them, the more flesh began to crack and sizzle, so she shoved him off the sarcophagus. When his body hit the floor with a sickening crunch, he didn't even stir.

"Umph!" Xander grunted as they rolled Spike onto the mattress. "_Finally_."

"Spike?" she had asked timidly, afraid to move around the coffin. "Spike, can you hear me?"

Shouldering her limited courage, Buffy had walked slowly to him, rolled him over, and fought back the dire urge to vomit. Blackened and charred, his muscle and flesh stuck to the floor, and his head lolled uselessly on his shoulders.

"Yeah," Buffy agreed, caressing the rough material shielding Spike from her friends. "Finally."

On both points of that fractured line, Buffy stood beside her broken enemy and wished to God that Oz was still around.


	3. Pace Tua

**Title:** The Crow and the Pitcher  
**Author:** freak-pudding  
**Disclaimer:** _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Summary:** Clara Clara sweet girl sweet wonderful girl where are you? Post- Intervention  
**Author's Note:** See previous chapters.

**Chapter Three: Pace Tua**

He drifted in and out of oblivion for a long, long time. Memories, thoughts, dreams, and wakefulness blended together on the periphery of his awareness until he couldn't remember which was back and which was up.

He tried remembering, remembering as far back as he could but the farthest he could get was Clara. She had been tall and young and very, very pretty the first time he saw her. He had wrapped himself in the folds of Mother's skirts, refusing to come out and meet the pretty stranger.

"Come now William haven't you any manners? This is Clara she's a good girl good girl she'll take care of you instead of Nanny now isn't that nice of her? Come out William come out and let Clara get a good look at you."

"I want Nanny!"

He had sobbed for weeks and weeks and hours at finding Nanny was gone. She'd been seized in a fit of cholera late at night and was dead by the next morning. Mr. Foss had gathered up sweet Nanny and taken her out in a pretty pine box while Mother rocked in her chair and he played with his tin soldiers at the fire.

"That's alright Mrs. Bennett that's just fine I expect he'll warm to me warm right up to me and everything will be good as pie around here in no time."

"Yes yes you're right William go play by the hearth don't go in the fire William play in the fire."

No, no, no, that was wrong that wasn't right at all. Mother had always told him to stay away from the fire stay out of the fire don't go near it at all. But he was a risk-taker yes indeed he was and he liked the fire liked it so much that he'd bathed in it been baptized in it felt the fires of demonic resurrection swell around him and beat his body until it was black.

There was fire on him now fire in a ring around his right arm. He tried to wiggle his fingers flex his wrist clench the muscles in his forearm but it came to him quite suddenly too suddenly in fact that he couldn't wiggle his fingers or flex his wrist or clench the muscles in his forearm because he didn't have any of those things.

White-hot panic seized him as he tried to flail his arm back and forth. There was a funny prickly feeling just below his shoulder, a fire and a feeling of friction like something being dragged back and forth. He wanted to scream and shake and tell them no no you can't don't you dare you can't take my arm can't take my arm I need it I can't live without my arm a man needs his arm to write and punch and fight and play pool and read and be a man.

But the dragging continued and he felt it bite the bone bite the something hard so hard he thought he'd die from the pain. Something tickled the back of his eyeballs and his chest seized up in funny little fits and he realized that he was crying.

Crying because they were taking his arm. Those sonsofbitches why were they doing that didn't they know he needed his arm? He felt the grind of something sharp on his bone, and that's when he realized that he'd only _felt_ the dragging and the grinding and the pulling and he'd only _felt_ his chest seize hadn't heard the sobs hadn't heard the tears.

Oh god Clara oh god they've taken my arm and my ears and can't they see that I need those things? Man's gotta talk and laugh and be able to listen and sing and why aren't you answering me pretty Clara? Can't you hear me don't you see me? Clara please Clara make them stop make the bastards stop they're taking my arm I need my arm and my ears and they can't take those things and oh god it hurts why won't they stop?


	4. Onus Probandi

**Title:** The Crow and the Pitcher

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** She hated the heat, hated what it made her feel. Post-Intervention

**Author's Note:** A humungous thank-you to my wonderful new beta, Lindsay. XD As for the rest of you… Savor the darkness, baby.

**Chapter Four: Onus Probandi**

On Thursday they all came down to clean out Giles's apartment. Willow stayed in the kitchen with Tara, and at noon they made everyone peanut butter sandwiches. Xander and Anya were relegated to organizing the living room. This left Giles and Buffy with the back bedroom and the darkest area of the small flat.

Still uncertain of what he'd find, Giles brought his entire first aid supply, even making Buffy dig beneath the sink for a white tin box that probably hadn't seen the light of day since the Englishman moved in. Balancing boxes and bags, Watcher and Slayer moved with reluctance to the door of the vampire's room.

Once inside, they were even more unsure of what to do. Seeming to realize it was still his role, Giles moved around the room and turned on all available lights. Dust exploded from the shades, and Buffy coughed into her hand.

"Dear lord…" Giles whispered, bending over Spike's motionless body. "What the hell happened to him?"

"You already know the answer to that," Buffy replied, astonished at how cold she sounded. Giles cast her a glance before peeling the light cotton blanket back. Bits of Spike's flesh clung to the fibers, and Buffy stuffed it in the first of many garbage bags.

"Perhaps we should, um… _catalog_ his injuries?" Giles suggested with an almost apologetic note. Buffy nodded, retreating from the room to fetch a notebook and pencil. Little to her surprise, Giles swiftly followed.

"Anya, I need you to do something for me," he said, ushering the petulant blonde from her recline on the stairs beside Dawn. "I need you to go get some supplies from the hospital."

"You mean steal?" Anya asked, popping a bubble in her gum with an audible crack.

"Yes," Giles replied, closing his eyes in momentary exasperation. "I'll write you a list, and I want you to go right away."

"Is it that bad?" Dawn asked, her voice seeming too small.

"He'll be fine," Xander said breezily, dropping a box of books at the teen's feet. "Sort."

But Dawn's eyes remained on her sister, and Buffy made no sign as she held up the notebook to Giles.

"Good enough," the Watcher sighed, and together they plunged back into the abyss.

Giles flitted around the bed for several moments, hesitant of where to begin.

"Start at the top, work our way down?" Buffy suggested reluctantly.

"Right…"

Giles pushed his glasses further up his nose and cleared his throat.

"Um… There are several deep gashes on his scalp and along the sides of his face, both eyes are swollen and bruised, covered in cuts…"

Carefully, he pried apart Spike's eyelids.

"The eyes themselves are… the whites have turned completely red. We may be looking at retinal damage, perhaps even nerve damage… His nose appears to be unbroken, though a little swollen. Teeth and tongue are intact, bruising along the jawbone… I can't really see far enough into his throat… It appears that his larynx and trachea are damaged…"

He turned Spike's head gingerly, briefly examining the back.

"There's really too much blood. We ought to clean him a bit… Perhaps a few skull fractures, and there seems to be a large amount of blood in and around his ears. This might indicate ruptured eardrums, but we can't be sure until Anya gets back… Torso is heavily bruised, with cuts that begin above his breastbone and stretch past the pectoral muscles. There's a small hole, perhaps just over a centimeter in diameter, beneath his left clavicle, um… Bruising along his sides indicates several broken ribs, perhaps a few punctures…"

His fingers reached slowly for Spike's right arm, but they never made contact.

"Um, s-severe burns on the right arm, down to the bone in most places, it goes all the way up to his elbow… Little to no flesh or muscle on his hand; a few bones appear to be missing… I'm afraid we'll have to amputate. His left arm is only dislocated, perhaps from his fall onto the elevator, and his wrist is broken."

"I, um, I think that's my fault," Buffy interjected quietly. "When I pushed him off the tomb, I heard something crunch, and…"

Giles twitched the sheet lower, and Buffy flushed.

"No apparent damage to the, er… groin area…"

A bit of blush tinged Giles's cheeks, and he quickly replaced the blanket.

"M-moving on… Uh… l-legs appear heavily bruised; his right ankle is swollen, perhaps a fracture or sprain… Christ, these cuts are deep."

Buffy chewed on the end of her pen, wishing Giles would just wrap it up already. When the Watcher finally stepped away, it was only to ask her for the dagger on the counter and the sharpening stone he kept beneath the end table.

She turned back, handing over the dagger with a nauseous feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.

"I'll get some water," she blurted, dashing for the door. "To, um, to… clean him. And stuff."

The bathroom door slammed behind her, and Buffy pressed her back against it, willing away the bewildering tears flooding her eyes.

She crossed to sink and turned on the faucet. She kept her fingers beneath the jet, waiting for the water to be cold enough to bite. Silently, she stared at her reflection.

"What the hell am I doing?"

The staccato burst of sobs shocked her, and she stuffed her fists into her mouth, willing them to stifle the sound cracking against the mirror and reverberating back to ripple across the cream tiles beneath the window. Stabbing pains up and down her thighs came suddenly as the Slayer's legs gave out, and she crumbled against the tub, clinging desperately to the porcelain.

Tara's timid knock on the door didn't even startle her from the floor.

"Buffy? Buffy, Mr. Giles needs your help. H-he thinks that S-Spike might be w-waking up."

Buffy reached out and pressed her palm flat on the door. Splaying her fingers, she caressed the hollow wood and tried to imagine it was a momentary veil against the rest of the world. There was no sound from the hall, but she knew that Tara was still standing there.

Buffy made no reply.

After several long moments, she heard the faint rustling of linen against Berber, and Tara's voice seemed to be right in her ear.

"I… I know that th-there's nothing I c-can say to… that will m-make it better, Buffy, but… there's this thing? My m-mother always used to t-tell me th-that it only gets w-worse before it gets b-better, y'know? B-but, I always thought, huh, isn't that funny? Y-you'd think it'd only get w-worse, no matter what, right? B-but that's not how it goes."

Buffy closed her eyes, sinking until her head hit the linoleum.

"You can't believe it'll only get worse before it gets better, Buffy. If you do, you'll never stop seeing the bad. You've gotta believe it gets better. Because it really does. S-sometimes it just takes a while."

Her fingers curled against the door.

"I promise you it'll be better soon."

It seemed she had nothing left to say, and Buffy heard the soft tap of her footsteps fading away. After only a few seconds, she lifted her head from the floor and crossed to the sink. Giles kept his rattier towels underneath the sink, and she filled a bowl with warm water.

Her fingers clenched and unclenched themselves as she stood outside the bedroom door. She stared at the knob, almost willing it to turn itself and let her in.

She jumped when it moved.

"Oh, Buffy, good," Giles nodded, stepping aside to let her in. "Is Anya back yet?"

"I… I didn't see," Buffy replied, setting the bowl on the end table. "T-Tara told me that he was…"

His left hand was twitching. A lump built in the back of her throat as she robotically followed Giles to the bedside.

"I'll just clean him up then," she said, her voice small. Giles nodded, setting to work at Spike's right arm. The vampire shuddered almost imperceptibly as Giles's blade bit into the flesh just below his shoulder.

They worked in silence as the vampire thrashed weakly; Buffy thought she might vomit if she spoke. Willow's shrill announcement of lunchtime had them scurrying rapidly from the room, desperate to be away from their gruesome task.

In eating, Buffy managed to find a brief peace. But, things being as they were, it did not last long.

"Buffy, Dawn's presence might help to calm Spike."

"Giles, I am _not_ subjecting my little sister to that… _that_!"

"Well, I can't help him if he doesn't calm down—"

"_Why_ are we helping Spike again?" Xander interrupted, setting down another box of books with a small grunt. "Okay, so he did get tortured by Glory, but I mean, the guy _is_ evil, and he built the Slayer Sexbot—"

"_Xander_," Willow admonished, giving a pointed nod toward the stairs where Dawn was sulking.

"—not to mention the fact that we all hate him," the carpenter sighed. "Look, I'm just the guy movin' the couch, but I gotta wonder… ooh! Penny!"

"Ah, the joys of monetary distraction," Anya beamed, marching through the door in a riot of sunshine and pink rayon. "Got the stuff."

With a relieved sigh, Giles took the paper bag from her and perused its contents.

"Any trouble?"

"Not really," Anya yawned, flopping onto the couch in an undignified heap. "I had to flirt with a couple orderlies, but I doubt they'll remember me."

"Yes, well, let's hope not," Giles said distractedly. Anya stole a cookie as Willow passed by with a new batch. "This will help Spike a great deal, thank you, Anya."

"I got some extra stuff, too, but it's back at the Magic Box," Anya nodded. Tara fanned herself with a sigh, throwing open the windows.

"There's still some lemonade in the kitchen if you're thirsty," Willow said, picking up the feather duster again. "Giles, don't you know how to alphabetize?"

"Of course I do," the Watcher said indignantly. "I was a bloody librarian!"

"I don't hate him."

Dawn's voice was at first small and almost unnoticeable. The typic of teenage petulance, she straightened defiantly as the attention shifted her direction.

"What?" said Buffy.

"I don't hate him," Dawn repeated loudly, glaring at Xander. "He got hurt trying to save me."

"Yeah, but—"

Xander cut himself off, throwing his hands in the air.

"For pity's sake! Dawnie, he doesn't even _care_ about you. He _can't_. He's just trying to get in Buffy's pants!"

Dawn jumped down from the landing, facing off with her former friend.

"You're such a jackass," she spat, slapping him.

"Dawn!"

The girl turned and ran for the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to shake the flat. Buffy sighed, burying her face in her hands. Xander's jaw flapped open and closed uselessly.

"You look like a fish," Anya observed from the couch, prompting her boyfriend to glower. There was silence.

"I need to get back to Spike," Giles said reluctantly. "Buffy, do you think you could, um, you could…"

His strange squeamishness resurfaced, but Buffy couldn't find the strength to take pity on him.

"Could you… _get rid_ of the—the, um, the…"

"Yeah," Buffy said tersely, cutting off the stutter. "Xander, I need help."

They returned to the room as a group. Buffy went immediately for the garbage bags, Giles to tend Spike's torn face, but Xander stayed in the doorway. Irritated beyond measure at the waves of stupidity and blind obstinacy surrounding her, Buffy thrust the two lighter bags at Xander.

"C'mon."

Obediently, he followed.

They trudged in relative silence around the apartment complex. When Xander made to toss his load into the communal Dumpster, Buffy shook her head violently.

"We can't," she said simply, continuing to Tara's truck.

The witches had decided shortly after Joyce's death that someone other than Xander and Giles ought to have a car. The truck was once a chipper green, but now the bed was rusted out near the tires and the air conditioner broken.

Buffy tossed her bags over the side and climbed into the sweltering cab. Late April, and it was already hotter than Hell. Bewildered, Xander clambered in beside her and started the truck with a dissatisfied grinding of corroded gears.

"Stop," she commanded when they'd reached the city dump. Resolutely, she stumbled from the cab and hurried to the side, needing this task to be over and done with.

They chose a half-full Dumpster near the edge, and Buffy was careful to arrange several other bags over top of theirs. Exhausted, Buffy leaned against the side of the bin and wiped at the hair plastered to her forehead.

Xander leaned beside her, watching his friend carefully.

"Just say it, Xander."

He opened and closed his mouth for several minutes, surprised and uncertain how to begin.

"He didn't look that bad," the carpenter blurted. Buffy cast her eyes in his direction. "I mean, okay, his burned arm was a little bad—"

"What arm?" Buffy replied pointedly. His eyes widened.

"You mean, we just threw out his—"

Buffy grimaced, giving a small nod. This provided a nice, stunned silence for at least a couple minutes.

"Still… I mean, doesn't he deserve that? After everything he's done?"

"Who are we to decide who should be maimed and who shouldn't?" she shot back irritably. He gaped.

"Buff, don't tell me you're defendin' the guy. He _chained you up_—"

"I know what he _did_, Xander," she interjected, rubbing her face. "And he didn't just… I mean, he got hurt for Dawn. For me."

"So?"

He crossed his arms, facing her down.

"That doesn't change anything."

"I know…" Buffy sighed. "It's just…"

A soft chorus of crickets began behind them, a gentle warning of impending dusk.

"He was _crying_, Xander," Buffy said, tears forming in her own eyes. "He knew what we were doing, he knew that we were taking his arm, and he was _crying_."

Wiping uselessly at her smearing mascara, Buffy pushed off of the Dumpster and started away, hands shoved deep in her pockets.

"How'm I supposed to hate him now?"


	5. De Profundis

**Title:** The Crow and the Pitcher

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Paris was so lovely in the summertime and oh how he wished they never had to go there. Post-Intervention

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much for the awesome reviews, guys. This story's reaching upwards of 10K words so far, and I plan to make it even longer. Don't expect this too be much of an action-driven story. I've found that's my muse is turning more and more to Spike's past. Probably only because we're reading about the Victorian era in history.****

****

**Chapter Five: De Profundis**

It was summer again. They were in France. He lay facedown in a wide river, and he held his breath.

The sun beat down on his back, and he could hear the rush of water far beneath him. He opened his eyes to a world of greens; aquamarine veiling beige, speckles of gold trickling through turquoise and emerald. He could see the gentle sway of weeds on the periphery of his vision. They shook and shimmied against each other. At times they'd part and he'd be rewarded with a brilliant flash of gold from the slippery, reflective back of a fish. He smiled then, because it made him think of the gypsies they'd watched in the Parisian market their first night in the city.

"William! Come out of that water at once!"

He lifted his head, letting his body slip slowly into the rushing water as he looked up at Clara. Hands fisted on her hips, Clara scowled down at him from the rail of Uncle's rotting stone bridge.

Wispy trails of black curls peeked from beneath the brim of her pink-patterned bonnet, and her mouth was pulled into its perpetual grimace. She'd put the little yellow daisies he picked for her through the buttonhole of her new pink jacket.

Everything she wore was brand new now. Mother had really wanted to impress Grandmère this time. They'd all gone to downtown London together; Clara, Mr. Foss, Mother, and him all bundled up and stuffed in a carriage. They bumped over cobblestones and splashed through mud to get to the market to buy new fabrics.

_This is how the world ends._

Still, Grandmère had found something to complain about.

"Look at this boy!" she'd cried indignantly, gripping his chin tightly, near to forming bruises. "Little more than a stick! I hardly see how he could be from _my_ dear William."

Grandmère'd always said Father's name like that. _My_ William, and no one else's. As though he was some great god of parenting, a shining example of the perfect son and husband and person and now he could really see why Uncle had hated him so much.

"William, I'm not even _close_ to joking," Clara said impatiently, stamping her little black boot on the wood boards. "Get _out_ of that water before Madame Bennett sees you!"

"Why do you call Grandmère Madame?" he asked innocently. "Me and Mother are your friends."

"Mother and _I_," she corrected, smiling. "And it's a term of respect, _Master_ William."

He made a face, sliding onto his back.

"I don't like being called Master," he sighed. "It makes you sound like you're less than me. But you're not. You're older."

"Age's nothing to do with it," Clara retorted, the dimples around her lips looking sad. "Now get out of that water at once!"

"No!" he replied. "I don't want to."

"_William_!"

"I hate Grandmère!" he burst out, flailing his arms wildly. "She's mean and evil and always rude to Mother and—"

The last of his passionate sentence was drowned in a shower of bubbles as he slipped beneath the surface. The swift current caught his ankles and pulled him down quickly.

_This is how the world ends._

Dazed, he opened his eyes to see Uncle's bridge and the riot of pink that was Clara rushing away behind an angry veil of jade. He opened his mouth to call out, and water flooded his lungs.

He'd felt it then. The icy grip of mortality on his soul. Felt it harder when his foot caught on a rock. Three feet just three feet from shore and he couldn't pull himself free and oh God he's drowning he's drowning he's gonna die because he said he hated Grandmère and he's sorry so sorry he'll take it back take it all back if only if only he can live please God please don't let him die like this please he's scared frightened can't reach the air can't kick free oh God oh God oh God.

And he was sick still so sick and he thought he'd retch everywhere and thank god he wouldn't have to hear it he always hated that noise hated that stupid stupid noise hated the way it sounded.

He could hear, dimly, the shrill filtered sound of Clara screaming Clara shouting begging his name over and over trying to get his hand trying to save him. And he'd ruined her new jacket but she said it was okay he was alive thank god he was alive, "Thank god oh Madame he was so lucky so lucky I can't believe I grabbed him he was drowning and I thought he was dead."

Wrapped in thick blankets and cradled in Mother's lap Uncle trying to feed him some warm chicken broth begging him to open his mouth open his eyes show them he was okay and Grandmère Grandmère sitting staring, lip curled over those horrid horse teeth just staring just staring.

"Stupid girl. Why couldn't you just leave him at the bottom?"

And it had been quiet so quiet Mother shaking Mother trembling beneath him, her cheeks red in anger as she stood and screamed at Grandmère, "You horrid horrid horrid woman he's your grandson how can you say that how can you even think never asked never asked for William to leave loved him loved him so much he left me with this boy and no hope and haven't heard from him in years haven't seen him how can you say you want my only boy dead?"

And she'd gotten up and set him in the carriage called Mr. Foss from the fields told Clara to get the bags and Uncle drove them into Paris drove them to the docks and saw them off as Mother declared she'd never come to France never set foot in Grandmère's house.

_This is how the world ends._

But always, always when he thought of Grandmère he thought of that terrible silence that followed her dismissal of him. How he hadn't understood hadn't comprehended really what she'd said what she'd meant not until he was older not until Angelus and the whippings and beatings and the pain and death and darkness—

And in those moments he was back, back at the bottom of that sinister river in France, the world around him darkening fading light leaving as he thrashed and screamed and choked, tears pouring from his eyes and diffusing in the water around him, Clara's hand mere inches mere sweet precious inches from his own, and he'd felt it felt it felt how hard and cold and terrifying death really was, felt the water pounding into his ears drowning out everything drowning out the sound of his own racing heartbeat and he was going blind blind blinded by the light by the nothing blind because he was dying.

And he was glad.

Glad he'd never hear Dawnie giggle or see her smile again never hear the whelp argue with his demon over donuts never see the way Glinda tried to hide behind her smile when she thought the Scoobies wouldn't approve never see the way Willow's eyes softened when Tara entered the room never hear the strange sound of Rupert singing never hear Buffy's ridiculous Slaying puns or how her voice cracked when she was trying not to cry never see her golden hair never see her bright smile of sunshine and never see her throw back her head and laugh and dance and fight and brush her hair and _be_.

Never see Buffy.

Spike choked. The saltwater of his tears soaked into the bandages criss-crossing his mutilated face.

And somewhere long, long ago and too far away, six-year-old William lay at the bottom of a river, flailing desperately for Clara's fading hand as his sobs echoed dully through the sludge-water. And as he sat back and watched his pretty green-and-gold world black out, he thought.

_This is how the world ends._

Not with a bang, but a whimper.


	6. In Rerum Natura

**Title:** The Crow and the Pitcher

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Schedules were a wonderful thing; she wondered why she'd never had one before. Post-Intervention

**Author's Note:** All chapter tiles will be explained at the end of the story. Which, by the way, I have no idea when that's gonna be. Reviews are my proverbial tube-feeding (and the Republicans say I can never take it out).

**Chapter Six: In Rerum Natura**

She changed the sheets again. This is normal; this is good.

She moved now through life in a series of normal, cohesive patterns. Nothing strange, nothing not planned or arranged or scheduled.

Every morning she woke Dawn at six and headed downstairs to fix a healthy, full-pyramid breakfast. At seven Xander picked Dawn up and drove her to school. Eight o'clock found her training at the Magic Box. Break for lunch; another hour, and she went to Giles's apartment at one to help take care of Spike.

He hadn't woken up yet. He hadn't even moved. Giles had long ago given up. She'd ignored every word.

She started by opening the door wide, letting fresh air in. She knew he didn't need it, but it made her feel better. And it made the air smell a little less like a funeral home.

She stripped the sheets and got new ones, rolled him gently back onto the bed. On his left side, swish-swish, onto his back swish-swish, and he was clean. A quick check of the bandages and she was out the door with a cheery wave, garbage in hand. She left the further probing to Giles and his rudimentary medical knowledge.

Anya had thought of nearly everything on her little raiding run the other day. Stitches, gauze, ointments, antibiotics (not that he needed them), tape, scalpels, scopes, clamps; anything and everything they could possibly have needed was stored away beneath Giles's kitchen sink, right next to a dusty box of Weetabix.

She returned home just before three, loads of laundry and bill collectors' calls waiting to be screened. Xander brought Dawn at three-thirty; she did her homework at the dining table. Buffy cooked something nice and well-balanced, setting it on the table by five, and the two of them ate in silence. Dawn helped clear the table, and if she was finished with her chores, she watched TV until seven. Then she went up to her room and stayed there alone until Buffy came in at nine to say good night. A quick round of patrol ending at eleven, and Buffy was home in bed as well, snuggled beneath her comforters.

Even the dream was becoming routine.

She didn't know when or how it started; she just knew that it had been there for a long time. Maybe it had always been there.

Joyce and Spike sat side-by-side on the couch in her living room, sunlight streaming through the window behind them. Joyce held Spike's hand in her lap, stroking the charred skin absently.

"Hurry up, Buffy," she said, staring at the silent TV. "You'll be late for school."

"High school's over, Mom," Buffy replied. Spike said nothing.

Buffy crossed to the window, peering at the crack between the curtains.

"It's getting dark out there."

"It's darker in here."

Spike whimpered. When Buffy turned back, the bandages covering his eyes were gone, revealing blue irises in a sea of red.

"Poor baby," Joyce cooed. Spike's fingers began to crumble in her lap. There were cuts on the outside corners of his eyelids, a measure Giles had introduced to take the pressure off his eyes from the build up of blood around his optic nerves. Buffy had left the room before he could ask her to hold the bowl beneath the cuts.

Spike stared silently up at her, his gaze reproachful and forlorn.

_Why?_

He asked her with every fiber of his being, every bit of his presence begged to know the reason.

"I don't know," Buffy said simply, and then she woke up.

Lying awake, shaking at night, Buffy thought constantly about what the dream meant. Her dead mother holding Spike's hand, the bright sunlight contrasting with the darkness of the house…

Throwing off the covers, Buffy decided that it didn't make sense. This was the fourteenth time she'd had the dream, and it was really starting to grate on her nerves. She knew that Spike wanted something from her, something scarily close to that hallowed _crumb_, something that Buffy just wasn't ready to give yet, despite what her capacity to love might have been.

The very fact was that she still didn't feel very loving. She said the word all the time, just to test it out. As she shopped, slayed, trained, cleaned, bandaged, studied, washed, dried, lived—she said the word. Over and over and over in her head until the letters melted together and jumbled around and it no longer sounded like a word at all.

She loved Dawn; she loved her mother and father; she loved Giles and Willow and Xander and Anya and Tara and Angel—

Buffy frowned, padding softly down the hall to the bathroom. Now _that_ one felt funny on her tongue.

She closed the door tightly behind her, going to the sink for a long drink of water. When she was done, she stared hard at her reflection.

"I love Angel," she said. "I _love_ Angel. _Loooooove_ him. Love."

She made a face; the Buffy in the mirror stuck her tongue out.

"I love Angel."

Something was off.

_"High school's over, Mom."_

And it was, wasn't it?

In all the years of her life, especially those spent as the Slayer, Buffy had never done more growing up than she had in the past few months. A mystically endowed, irritating baby sister thrust upon her, her boyfriend's untimely exit, her mom's unexpected death… When she looked in the mirror now, she saw Buffy the Woman, not Buffy the Young Girl.

Maybe that's why it felt so weird saying she loved Angel.

Angel had been the perfect match for Girl-Buffy, with the swooping in briefly with dire warnings and terrible forbidden-ness. Their love had been wild and passionate and painful: all the things a good first love should be. A good _young_ love. But she wasn't a little girl anymore.

The truth was that Angel was a terrible match for the woman she'd become, the hard fighter looking for a death wish and the darker part of herself. Her brief tangle with Dracula had proven that much. She needed someone hard, someone rough, someone not afraid to treat her like the tough creature she was, not some porcelain doll on a shelf.

And Angel put her on that goddamn shelf. His perfect, untouchable, innocent Slayer. Willing to wait out the century or whatever until he Shanshued. Perfectly happy to drop anything and everything that might have changed in her life to be with him. Xander had asked her as much the other day.

"So if Angel just _poof_ and went human, you'd leave us all to marry him?"

He was joking, of course. Sarcasm and bright smiles to smooth over the awkward moments when she knew they were all just bursting to ask about the Spike thing. That was something she was just _not_ discussing.

And Riley. Buffy shuddered.

Mr. Normal. Mr. Not-So-Right-After-All. Mr. Lets-A-Vamp-Ho-Suck-His-Arm-The-Stupid-Bastard—

Yeah. Not going there either.

She washed her hands and dried them on the pink towel hanging beside the sink. She needed to sleep. She knew she'd be exhausted tomorrow, but it just didn't seem to matter.

Love. Give. Forgive.

"Got two down, and I'm workin' on the third," she promised her reflection before flicking off the bathroom light and going back to bed.


End file.
